


Aftermath

by Squash (JeSuisGourde)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Owen Harper & Ianto Jones Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14294808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeSuisGourde/pseuds/Squash
Summary: Sometimes, when the dust has settled, you need a little support. Owen and Ianto manage to hold each other up in their own ways in the aftermath of various cases.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I haven't written Torchwood fic in like 5 years. But I just rewatched the first two series out of boredom and I had to write something about my two favorite characters and the friendship I imagine they have when they're not being snarky at each other.

In the aftermath of Ianto's nearly earth-ruining balls-up with his cyber girlfriend, Owen is angry. A mild way to put it. In actuality, he's furious, fuming, terrified. Not of Ianto or his powers of desperation-fueled deception. It's that, for a moment, running from this half-converted cyberman in the darkness of the hub, he was smashed flat with the notion that he could lose all this, lose everything. That the horrors he'd picked over in the ruins of London's Torchwood One could easily duplicate themselves here on a smaller but no less destructive scale. And he didn't say it to Gwen, after their snog in the autopsy bay, but he wasn't all that afraid of dying. That, he'd known since before he'd ever even become a doctor, was inevitable. He was afraid that somehow he'd survive the second destruction of Torchwood, that this one would be dissolved like the last, and he'd have nothing left to go back to. It's that threat that terrifies him, and the terror infuriates him, and he can't help that after it's all done, he is the last person to lower his gun.

He stays angry for a while, and shags Gwen to get some of the tension out. It isn't until after the fairies, after the cannibals, when he'd suddenly been forced to think of Ianto and the team as truly _human_ compared to those villagers, when he'd put his hands on Ianto's body to patch him up and watched the conflict on his face at the gentle touch, that he stops and thinks about it all. Which is how he ends up in Ianto's flat two days later, sat on the man's ugly secondhand sofa, his med kit on the coffee table and a long-suffering but clearly in pain Ianto sat stone-facedly in front of him. Truly, he _is_ there to check on Ianto, who is his patient, after all. But he's also there to extend a hand, if Ianto wants it.

“Concussion's settled down,” he remarks, putting away the pen light and watching Ianto blink the spots out of his eyes. “Still, no running around too much and don't go banging your head on walls.” He peels the bandage tape off Ianto's throat, ignoring the flinch. “Healing well. Careful of the stitches on your leg, though. Whatever it was you caught yourself on, it was a nasty gash. Even stairs could pull a little.”

“Thanks, Owen, I'll be sure to install a lift in the hub at the earliest convenience.” The dry patter is familiar. He squeezes Ianto's shoulder before he turns away, just to let him know he's finished.

“Not a bad idea, that.”

Silence from the other end of the conversation. They've run out of things to say that aren't barbed or so innocuous as to be small talk. Owen starts to pack up his things. Thinks about sacrifices and _sacrifices_ and the way he knows they both cling to Torchwood like there's nothing left, because there isn't. Carefully, concentrating on his equipment instead of Ianto, he lets himself put a foot in his mouth.

“He did the same to me, you know.” He feels Ianto's stare on the side of his face. He gives the short version, “My fiancee had an alien in her brain. He could have saved her. He didn't. And now I'm here.”

Ianto stares at him for a while, until Owen is starting to feel fidgety. He shouldn't have done that. He meant it as an act of comfort, of solidarity. Now Ianto's got ammunition against him. He should have known it wasn't that easy.

“He likes to play god,” Ianto murmurs, so quiet and flat Owen almost misses it.

'Yes.”

“Doesn't he know it ruins our lives?”

“Maybe. I dunno. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe he can rationalize it to himself.”

“I hate him,” Ianto shakes his head, pulling his arms in close. “And I love him.”

“I know, mate, me too.”

―——―————————————

 

An old teammate coming back to life is something you never get used to. And of course it's Suzie-- deranged, obsessive, beautiful Suzie. And it's weird to realize you've missed someone and forgotten about them simultaneously. And then, as it is wont to do, everything descends into chaos. And when she dies again, _finally_ , and Owen is done fussing about with Gwen's head, he, Ianto, and Tosh go out for a drink. Ianto's got a beer, Tosh a girly drink on the pinkish side of gold, and Owen settles for good old fashioned whiskey.

“I still can't believe any of us thought we knew her,” Tosh shakes her head. “All those plans. All those secrets."

“She wasn't the only one,” Owen reminds her. He feels Ianto flinch next to him. “Sorry, mate, but it's true.”

“You didn't have to bring it up.” He changes the subject. “Jack must know there's another one out there somewhere. Gloves do come in pairs.”

Owen hadn't thought of that, and he turns now to regard his colleague. “How does your brain work like that?”

Ianto points to himself dryly and blinks. “Archivist. I like to make sure things are organized with their partners. Gloves, like shoes, usually have partners.”

“Hm. Well, best not dwell on that, then, till it comes up. We can't spend all our time looking for Suzie 2.0.”

“Wasn't she already Suzie 2.0?” Tosh asks with a twisted smile.

“Fine. Suzie 2.5. Franken-Suzie. Third edition Suzie. Whatever.” He takes a large swallow of his drink, and stands up to get another. It has been an incredibly long day.

“You're going to have the hangover from hell if you keep this up,” Ianto observes; he's nursing his second beer into adolescence and beyond.

“Won't be half as bad as Suzie's. Or Gwen's. I'll be fine. I'm seasoned.”

Ianto drives him and Tosh to their respective flats, giving Tosh a kiss on the cheek as she gets out. Owen, in the back seat, scoffs. Ianto only throws him a look and then throws the car in reverse as Tosh unlocks her door and steps inside.

Ianto parks in front of Owen's building, the stark white and straight lines a sharp difference from the lopsided brownstone of Tosh's terrace house flat. He can see the water of the bay from here and its bobbing is making him feel a bit queasy. He can't help but think of the mad scramble after Suzie on the edge of the dock, Gwen limp on the planks and then whimpering and alive in his arms. Dammit, why is he still thinking? He got this drunk to try and _stop_ thinking. Instead, he sneers at Ianto, because it's easy, because it's expected, because he knows Ianto will respond sarcastically the way he always does, and Owen will roll his eyes and have little to say in response except a snort of derision, and then Ianto will raise an eyebrow and Owen will get out of the car and slam the door too hard for Ianto's liking and stalk up to his flat to get more drunk. Familiar, easy. He can map it in his head.

So he gives Ianto a smile that's mostly a mocking grimace, like expected. “Going to kiss me good night, too?”

“Only if you ask,” Ianto doesn't even blink. “I don't go snogging everything that catches my fancy. Though it could be arranged, if you like.”

Owen _really_ has nothing to say to any of those things, so he just twists his lips and glares at Ianto as he opens the door and stumbles out, slamming it behind him and sensing Ianto's wince without turning around.

He does notice that Ianto waits until he's shut the door to drive away.

And the little plastic bag holding two tablets of alien paracetamol that has appeared in his pocket beside his wallet.

 

―——―————————————

 

Ianto comes to see him after his dramatic little suicidal breakdown, and suggests lightly that they go out for a pint. Owen wants to snap at him, wants to fight, but he can also see the utter lack of pity in Ianto's expression. Owen's face is still bruised and swollen; Ianto's expression is one of honest familiarity. Owen hates that they've got so much in common. He says yes anyway. He could do with being drunk.

They sit together at a booth in a pub that's moderately noisy with the early weekend crowd. Ianto gets Owen a whiskey, and Owen raises the glass, nodding his thanks. They drink in silence. Owen gazes out the window at the grey dwindling light of day and the people bustling outside.

“They've all gone, you know,” Ianto says conversationally, as if commenting on the weather, as if it's something that will help.

“How do you mean.” It falls flat, but it is a question.

Ianto shrugs. “Emma's gone to London to work as a shop girl. Gwen sent her off the morning of Christmas eve. John stole my car and went back to his old home. He died in the garage. I think Jack knew what was going to happen, he was just a little too late. And...Diane.”

He doesn't need explaining. He knows what happened with Diane. Still, it aches, and then it aches some more when he processes what Ianto said about John. About Jack knowing. About not getting there in time. He thinks about RAF coats and cryptic messages and guns and the look on Jack's face in his hospital room, like a parent disappointed with his child. About the way he couldn't hold his gaze until he was telling Owen to come back to work.

He was telling the truth, back there in the hospital. Standing in that cage with the weevil, the entire world had gone silent for once, reduced to nothing but his imminent and unavoidable death, and he had quietly and happily accepted it. Everyone at Torchwood dies. At least he'd be able to choose his way out; at least it was in his hands. And it's not as though he'd had anything left. He'd seen beauty and felt love for the first time since Katie had gone. Losing that was enough to drive a man mad, enough to give up everything and just leave. It always hurts more the second time. In that cage, he'd found peace. He'd gone from aching and tense, angry, overflowing with hurt, to finally able to breathe. He'd been ready. And then a crash, and Jack's gun, and teeth on his shoulder and chest, but not in a way that meant the end.

He'd screamed at Gwen to get off him, and not only because it hurt that she was pulling his arms and he was bleeding onto the floor and the yells around him were deafening. He didn't want to be saved. Every instinct was screaming at him to run right back into that cage and finish what he'd started. Instead, he clutched his shoulder and curled on the floor to watch Lynch step into the cage and finish what _he'd_ started. He didn't miss the way the weevil seemed to look to Jack for permission, the way that Jack had jerked his head in assent before the weevil had rushed Lynch.

“He plays god,” Owen says.

“I know.”

“Like he's the only one who gets to decide who lives and who dies. And the rest of us don't get a choice.”

“I know.”

“I didn't want saving,” he repeats.

“I know.”

“I can't try again, can I?”

“No,” Ianto agrees, “You can't.”

They're silent. Owen pillows his head on his arms, wincing at the way the position twinges at the stitches in his shoulder. The fingers of Ianto's left hand are inches from Owen's elbow, but neither of them moves. Owen hates that he knows exactly what he looks like. He's seen the expression before, in suicide attempts when he worked at A&E, in Ianto after the cyberman. That apathetic, dulled exhaustion, the fight that's gone from desperate to empty, the moments of wild-eyed fear that this is just going to have to _keep going_. Another whiskey appears at his elbow, and Owen almost considers trying for alcohol poisoning.

Ianto actually helps him into his flat instead of dropping him on the pavement outside. Owen mocks him for treating him like a fragile date, but secretly he's grateful. Ianto pours him onto the sofa and Owen gets to pretend that he's drunker than he is, that he's less coherent than he is. He drinks the water placed in his hand obediently, then sits with his head back and listens to Ianto absently tidying his flat. The rustle of magazines being shuffled and put in the bin, the clink of glasses and mugs being moved from tables to the sink. A small inhale and the sound of fabric being folded. Ianto moves into his line of sight. Diane's red dress is folded in his arms.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

Owen stares at the silk held gently in Ianto's hands, like he knows he's holding some delicate piece of Owen's heart. Owen exhales, wants to close his eyes, but he can't tear his gaze away.

“I don't know.”

―——―————————————

 

In the aftermath of, well, everything, there's an unspoken agreement that there's no use in fighting. Blessedly, as if it is as exhausted as they are, the Rift gives them a week and a half of silence. In that time, they manage to clean up the mess left by Abadon, placate all the other organizations that have phoned, fix up news stories to cover their tracks, and deal with all the little leftovers that have dripped through edges of the torn hole in time.

And Ianto and Owen keep finding themselves the last to leave.

Gwen rushes home as soon as possible to be with Rhys, and Tosh eventually is cajoled back to her flat when she starts falling asleep in front of her monitors. But Owen can't seem to sleep and Ianto doesn't want to leave the hub and _someone_ should be there if Jack comes back or if the Rift starts acting up. Owen knows this is his penance, his duty out of fear and guilt and hurt. Ianto knows this is his duty, out of love and worry.

Ianto finally sends Tosh upstairs to head home, and returns to join Owen on the sofa. Owen hands him a beer, takes a sip of his own. “May as well be comfortable for the night watch,” he comments.

“You could go home, too.” Ianto offers, knowing it's useless.

“Can't, mate.”

“Why not?” Ianto knows the answer. His is the same. He waits anyway.

“Nothing to go back to, really. Everything that's important is here. Well, it was, anyway.”

They've rehashed it a couple of times now, a fist fight on the plass at night after work and then a knock-down, drag-out screaming match in the middle of the hub the next day with the girls looking on in horror. And then it was useless to fight because this is all the two of them have left.

Still, the shouted words seemed to echo through the hub even weeks later.

_The Rift took Diane, and my Captain, and I was not going to let it take all I had left!_

_You almost destroyed everything!_

_But I didn't! Would you have let Tosh and your beloved Jack die in the forties, all alone?_

_They would have found a way back!_

_But they didn't, and I did! And it happened, and I can't take it back!_

_And then he left anyway! He's gone, Owen!_

_Maybe he left because of me, but I wasn't going to just sit there while the Rift stole everything I loved and watch my life fall into a void again! And neither would you! So don't sit there on your high horse when you know that if you could have gotten Lisa_ and _Jack back, you'd have done the same thing!_

And then there had been a ringing silence as the truth fell at their feet, and then the clatter of footsteps as they both ran in opposite directions to nurse their wounds instead of clashing again, and the muffled exclamations of the girls, and Owen gasping for breath in the autopsy bay, and Ianto slamming the door to the conference room. And then a sort of truce had formed, through a feeling of duty and grief and an angry but shared understanding.

Neither of them have anything left outside of Torchwood. Friends, family, lovers, all dead or gone or estranged or nonexistent. Nothing of any meaning exists outside this life. Gwen has Rhys, has her friends and family. Tosh has her mum, has the small group of outside techie contacts that she's managed to cultivate over the years. Owen and Ianto, there's nothing but Torchwood to hold them up. It's a fact that Owen knows in his bones, that he can feel in his chest every time Jack looks at him like a disappointed father, every time it feels like Torchwood is going to go under and there will be nothing left. When Jack had fired him, he'd wanted to throw himself in the bay. If he didn't have Torchwood, he had no meaning, no life, no future, nothing.

So they drink beer in the early hours of the hub and hold each other up and ignore their own floundering hearts and pretend the grief of losing their Captain isn't threatening to overwhelm the fear of being left to fend for themselves.

―——―————————————

When Jack returns, and John Hart is gone, and they're holed up in St David's hotel, convening in Jack's room, Owen finally lets himself fall apart. He swears, swinging blindly, angrily at Jack. He lands a hit on Jack's jaw and then collapses into tears, one hand over his face, the other clutching the bullet wound in his side, his second breakdown in front of Jack and the team. Or maybe his third, he's not sure. Jack, somehow, sees the action for what it is and holds Owen close, rubbing the back of his neck, murmuring “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left like I did. I'm sorry.” It's quiet, but he means it for the whole team, and they know it.

Ianto doesn't kiss Jack, not yet, but he does hug him, fisting a hand in his coat and breathing in his scent like it could loosen the tension in his lungs. And he doesn't stay behind after the rest of the team have filed out to go back to their respective rooms, but he does allow Jack to make him promise to let them have breakfast together in the morning.

The knocking on his door is not at all surprising, and Ianto answers without saying a word, turning to sit back down on the bed as soon as Owen's pushed himself into the room. Owen joins him, and they stare at the rug together, shell-shocked. The silence is broken by Owen's shallow breathing around the hole in his side.

“Holy shit.” Ianto says bluntly.

“You're telling me,” he elbows Ianto gently. “Sorry 'bout his face. Didn't really think I'd crack him one but I guess I got away from myself.”

Ianto shakes his head. “It's all right.”

“But he's back now. And he came back for you, he did say that.”

“He meant the team.”

“No, Ianto, he meant you.” He shakes his head, puts his hand on Ianto's shoulder and squeezes it for emphasis. “That look on his face, he meant you.”

Residual anger and hurt still lingers. “He _abandoned_ all of us. I love him, but it's not fair for him to just come back for me.”

“Listen, Ianto. We're his employees. Maybe his friends, if you want to stretch a little. You, though, it's something deeper.”

“I almost wish it wasn't. I don't know if I want to forgive him so fast.”

“I know. But we're all going to because we all love him, and because he's our Captain. We can't really stay angry at him. So you best get used to it.”

Ianto stares at his palms as if trying to work out some secret his skin must hold. “He came back for me.”

 

―——―————————————

 

As Tosh walks away across the plass, Ianto appears almost silently in her place. Owen nearly jumps, but he catches himself and they both watch her recede into the rain. There's a grim familiarity sitting in his stomach and he sighs, turning back to the water. A comfortable silence sits between them as they stare out across the bay, and Owen wonders exactly when they stopped careening between rivalry and camaraderie and settled into this place.

“Thank you,” Ianto says abruptly, very softly. “For supporting her. For talking to her.”

“Yeah, well, we all know what it's like, don't we.” But it comes out softer and more gentle than it would have a year ago.

“Torchwood,” Ianto nods, not looking at him. “You love it and it ruins your life. And then you still love it.”

“Gwen's got Rhys, she's got her mates. You, me, and Tosh? Torchwood's all we have.” It's the first time it's been said when one of them isn't picking a fight or falling apart at the seams. It seems truer now than ever.

“I just hope she'll be okay.”

“We're always okay, Ianto, don't you know that?”

Ianto gives him a look and they both break into grins, laughing at the absurdity of that statement. In Torchwood, 'okay' is relative, and even then, they're never okay.

―——―————————————

When the creature's keening death sounds fall silent and its great mass stills and hardens, Owen breaks from Toshiko's touch, barely making it outside before vomiting behind a stack of wood pallets. His breath won't stop coming in short, overwhelmed gasps. Through the open door, he can hear Jack dividing tasks between everyone; Rhys to the car, the men to be bound, the creature's carcass to be burned. He knows he should be in there, helping, at least tending to Rhys if not to the creature's body. But his feet feel like lead and sorrow is like a dull ache in his chest and it feels like there's the hollow rendition of a migraine at the front of his skull.

And suddenly his whole body feels like it's been hit with a load of bricks, and in his peripheral vision his hands are shaking, and he shuffles down a few feet from where he's just been sick before sitting down heavily on the grimy tarmac. He feels guilty all over, for killing a helpless creature, for having an innocent, living patient for once and letting it down. Only upon turning away from Gwen and Rhys had he caught sight of the massive chunks of flesh carved out of the creature's side; his heart had twisted in pain for the dying alien. His chest feels like it hasn't come undone.

Ianto appears before him, a length of cord in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. Owen takes the proffered bottle. Ianto moves to lean against the wall of the warehouse. “You did what you had to,” Ianto comments gently.

“Wish I didn't have to. It was alive. It was innocent.”

“It was in pain. You did the best you could. Sometimes you can't save everyone.”

Owen twists the water bottle in his hands. “Most of the time any aliens we encounter are motherfuckers trying to kill us or dominate us or whatever. And I couldn't save this one innocent creature. Feels like I've broken the Hippocratic oath.”

“You did what was best for it. It would have been in agony.”

“Still--”

“You're a good doctor, Owen. Your instincts know what's best. We wouldn't have been able to send it home; it's better that it didn't have to suffer.”

Owen takes a drink to avoid having to say anything, then stares at his shoes. In the silence, he hears the muffled _fwump_ of a flame catching and winces. He's dreading going back in there and facing the flames. Ianto must read it in his face, because he clasps Owen's shoulder gently.

“There is someone still alive and innocent that you can help. Rhys is in the car with Gwen. Let's go. I've got to put this rope away anyhow.”

Ianto offers a hand; Owen lets himself be pulled upright and straightens his clothes. Ianto nods approvingly and leads the way around to the front of the building. Owen trails along behind Ianto's purposeful strides, tired and grieving but grateful that Ianto has reminded him of the opportunity to do the right thing, to help someone else innocent and injured, to actually save someone tonight.

―——―————————————

 

“You know,” Owen says conversationally as he watches Ianto put together his kit for the Parker case, “You never actually said anything to me, when we thought I only had three minutes to live.”

Ianto places Owen's gun gently on the table beside a folded sweatshirt and shakes his head. Then he picks up a dark collared shirt and begins to fold it slowly. “I didn't really know what to say. I figured the girls and Jack had things they wanted to say to you. You know our relationship's never been clearly defined. Their words seemed more important.”

Owen twists the towel in his lap and glaces askew at Ianto's profile. There's a fluid casualness to his every movement. None of the awkwardness between himself and the rest of the team has penetrated here; Ianto is as unflappable as ever. Before, it would be enough to annoy Owen into goading a fight, but not now. “I don't mean to be soft and poncy and all, but you're the only one who's treated me like I'm normal in all this. Everyone else is walking on eggshells or looking at me like I'm volatile. You've just carried on like it's any other day. Feels like the only real support I've gotten.”

“Just don't say 'thank you,' it sounds weird coming from you.” But the small smile on Ianto's lips and the nod of his head tell Owen he's being acknowledged and let off the hook. Ianto looks at his watch and then out towards the hub proper. “Time to get ready. You've got a date with some surveillance technology in half an hour.”

And then he's running around Henry Parker's house, knocking out guards. And then he's talking about death to an old man and he's terrified. And then Henry Parker is dead and he's clutching the alien artefact and its energy is overflowing. And then it's over. And then he's catching a glimpse of a smile on Ianto's face when he thanks Martha. And then he's on a roof with a suicidal woman and part of him has no idea what he's doing but another part of him really, really does.

And the next day Ianto joins him in the hothouse, leaning up against the wall and watching him scribble on a clipboard as he examines each plant. “You made a new friend on the way home.”

Owen gives him a look and keeps inspecting the flowering branch in front of him.

“Is she okay?”

“Maybe, if you and Jack haven't gotten to her.”

Ianto shakes his head and straightens, moving to stand beside Owen and peer down at his notes on the alien botany they've been running tests on. “No, she's safe. She's no more harmful than Henry Parker, and obviously she needed it.”

“She's grieving and severely depressed,” Owen answers honestly, after a pause and a heavy sigh. “Her husband died in a crash on their wedding day and she survived. Her friends tried to help her but she isolated herself. Last night was the anniversary. She was ready to die. Now, I think she's going to try and get help.”

Ianto nods and they both stare down at the plants, feeling the familiar weight of empathy, of deja vu, the sting of memory. “Were you ready to die, back there in that house?”

Owen hates how on the mark Ianto is sometimes, even when his voice is soft and his tone says it's okay to lie.

“Yeah. Yeah, I was.” The feeling of stupid uselessness, of utter failure, the grief of losing everything up to and including his ability to save people. Everything he was and lived for, that made up his identity, gone. He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even cry. There was no point.

And then the Pulse sang to him.

“I'm glad you didn't,” Ianto tells him, and even though it should sound awkward, it doesn't. “And I'm sorry I didn't say anything this time, either.”

Owen shrugs. “It's all right.”

“I can get you some contacts for her, if you like. Good ones, that will actually help.”

“Yeah, that'd be nice. At least one person around here ought to be going the proper route with all this.”

“And Jack says you're allowed to check up on her.”

Annoyance roils up at the assumption, at the intrusion, at the idea that Torchwood has to have control over every life that enters his own.“I'm not going to--”

“He didn't mean the Torchwood way.”

“Oh. Thanks.” The irritation is gone as quickly as it appeared. Instead, he just feels gratitude for Ianto's subtle influence and unobtrusive support in all this. It's better than words.

―——―————————————

Owen finds Ianto on the sofa, staring off into middle distance, a pen half-poised against some statement forms on the coffee table. Owen half expects his breath to be gone like the others', the way he's gazing out at nothing. Ianto's brow is furrowed and vulnerable in a way Owen hasn't seen since Jack returned; he looks lost. Owen does what he knows how to do, what he's comfortable with. He puts a hand on Ianto's shoulder, squeezing until the man inhales sharply and looks at him, the expression of hurt never really leaving.

“Come on, let's go for a drink.”

Ianto blinks, schools his features into something slightly more neutral. Still, it's tinged with that look like he's adrift somewhere far away. “You can't drink.”

“Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the atmosphere.” Owen smirks, then gestures for Ianto to stand up. “You still can, though. And clearly, you need it. Come on.”

They sit together in a booth in the corner, where it's dark and the noise of everyone else is muffled slightly by the space. Owen's ordered a whiskey but doesn't drink; it's easier to pretend to be nursing two fingers than a pint. Ianto gulps at his beer as soon as they've sat down, then wipes his mouth with a napkin, trying to regain composure.

“Really knocking it back, there, mate.” Owen comments. “Like me in the old days.”

Ianto shakes his head. “Sorry. It's just, this one's got to me.”

“Because of the kid? He did survive, Ianto, he'll be alright. And he's got us keeping an eye on him.”

“No, just, old things. It's like this case pulled up all this stuff from when I was growing up. And ruined the good thing I had. I _wanted_ to go back to the Electro. Didn't think I'd ever have to go back to Providence.”

“That psychiatric institute you and Jack visited?”

“Yeah." He scratches his thumbnail against the edge of the table, considering his words. When he looks up, his expression is hurting. "My mam was put in there when I was young. I was, too, for a bit. As a teenager. Only for a few weeks. She was there til she died.” At Owen's look of surprise and concern, Ianto sighs and answers the unasked question, one finger tracing shapes in the condensation on the outside of his glass. “Mam was schizophrenic. Heard voices, saw things sometimes. Drifted off into unresponsiveness for days at a time. She was harmless, really. But as my sister and I got older, she got worse, and we were both a handful ourselves. My dad didn't want to have to deal with all of us, and it was easier to send her away than his kids. The state would pay for her going, not ours.”

Owen almost wants to apologize, wants to say something, but it's not in his nature and he's not sure what he would say anyway. He makes a noise of sympathy, but Ianto continues without acknowledging him or anything else, gaze locked on the way the water slides down the glass as he runs his finger across it.

“She was in the women's ward for long-term patients. They treated her fine it's just-- you know, it's a psych ward. No one wants to be there.” He drops his hand to the table and clenches it into a fist. “When I was seventeen, I had a sort of psychotic break. Long story, really. Destroyed a bunch of stuff in my dad's flat, stole some things from a local shop, thought some government or something was watching me.” He rolls his eyes. “And now that I know what I do, it probably was. Anyway, I thought they'd put some sort of tracer in me. I ran off into the park in the middle of the night and tried to dig it out with a swiss army knife. My sister followed me, called the police, and they sectioned me. I was only at Providence for a few weeks, until I'd calmed down, until they'd seen me rational for long enough to decide I was okay and wasn't going to go digging under my skin again. Still, I hated it. It was like I was trapped there, no control over anything. I couldn't stand it. I put it out of my mind, but it's all come back now.”

“Jesus, Ianto.”

“Sorry.” Ianto shakes his head sharply, as if to clear it. “I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No, no, you should have. I am still technically your doctor, and it's good to know my patients' medical history.” He pushes his whiskey across the table, towards Ianto. “I won't tell Jack, I promise. I get it. You're not the only one around here with a fucked up brain and a childhood you'd rather forget about.”

Ianto accepts the offer and toasts him slightly in thanks before raising the glass to his lips.

“You did a good job, though, mate. You went back to that place and didn't freak out, and you managed to save a kid in the process.”

“This isn't freaking out? And it was only one. So many people died that could have been saved.”

“One is still better than zero, Ianto. Hasn't Jack bludgeoned that into our brains enough? And on a Torchwood scale of one to freaking the fuck out, this is just dealing. You want freaking out, try jumping in the bay and screaming for half an hour.”

“Ah. Yeah, I saw you do that.”

Owen winces. It wasn't his finest hour. “You too?”

Ianto shrugs. “I'm the one who told Jack you were out there.”

“Damn.” He sits back against his seat. “Still, Ianto. You're the one who noticed something was wrong. You're the one who figured it all out. If you hadn't seen the people missing from the film, this all would have gone on even longer and more people might have died.” And he hates getting all mushy and honest, but with Ianto it's easier; there's no pretence of anything more than what's there, and he knows that by tomorrow afternoon they'll be back to their working relationship of sarcasm and petty insults. “Listen, you managed to run this case that fucked with your brain and you kept your head about you. It upset you, it dredged up memories, but you waited until everything was over to let it get to you. That means you're in control, it means you know how to handle yourself. _And_ you saved a little kid. You did good. Seriously. I'm not going to lie about that, Ianto, I'm not the type.”

Ianto chuckles. “I know you're not. Thanks, Owen. Really.”

―——―————————————

 

When the dust of the explosion finally settles and the white-out of blind panic fades from his mind, Owen's first thought, pinned by bricks, the broken window teetering above him, is that he's fragile now, anything could be broken. The second is that he has no idea if the rest of the team made it. The third is that he hopes to whatever the fuck is out there that Gwen gets here soon. He needs to get out of this, needs to make sure everyone else is okay; if he can't function, he can't take care of them. He tries not to think about it, not to make his panic worse. And then he stares at the guillotine window, the panes waiting to impale him, and tries to will it not to fall just from the force of his terrified glare.

He hears Gwen's footsteps, her harsh breathing, before he sees her. If his heart could race, it would be now. When she reaches him, the sentence that has been running through his head falls out his mouth: “How are the others?”

She doesn't respond, and, distracted by the threat of mutilation from the window hanging above, he doesn't get a chance to ask again. Instead, she's yanking him away and he's checking himself for breaks. Finding none, he's rushing out of the building, only wanting to make sure everyone else made it.

Jack's yell greets them, but the sight of everyone limping out of the building, covered in dust, Tosh hunched and favoring her arm, makes Owen want to run faster.

“You all right?” He calls out, even though he knows the answer. “Tosh, what happened?”

“Broken arm, bruised ribs. About an inch away from being crushed by a girder.” He'll have to look her over in the car, splint her up when they get back to the hub.

Ianto glances at him, his impassive and unflappable mask already in place, but Owen can see he's in pain and hiding it. He'll bitch about hiding things from your doctor later, now is not the time. Instead, he gives Ianto's shoulder a squeeze of support.

“You were lucky,” he says, to both of them.

And then everything is insane, and there's no time to think, the hospital is falling apart at the seams, and then the entire city is exploding, and then he has to run across a Cardiff that's full of weevils and into the nuclear facility and then-- and then--

“Oh, god.”

 

And Ianto stands at the edge of the med bay, leaning heavily on a cart, watching his world crumble around him as Tosh fades away and Owen is nothing but a whited out block in a building on the screen and his whole city is blown to pieces. And through the pain in his shoulder he can still feel Owen's gentle press of reassurance.

In the aftermath, cleaning up the last of Owen's things, he lingers over the stupid doodles and scribbled notes scattered over the desk. In a cabinet, he finds a note taped to an unopened box of test tubes – _Ianto, stop rearranging my things. I've got my own sodding method._

He barely catches the sob that wants to force its way out.

Tosh's blood still stains the floor, and he gives the area a wide berth. But he sees Owen in every corner: in the empty bag of crisps shoved under the computer station, in the organized mess of papers, in the ipod dock balanced on the middle shelf of a cart between a blood pressure monitor and a box of saline bags, in the residue of band stickers on the wall Ianto had never managed to properly remove.

And after, putting the things in Owen's flat into boxes to be put away in storage, Ianto finds a wedding dress and a red dress nestled together in the back of the closet. And, even further back, hiding in a shoe box in the dark, something hums gently. He pulls it out and opens the box.

The Pulse's glow throbs out at him, slowly increasing as its tendrils of light reach out to him, threading around the flat. It's warm in his hands when he pulls it out of the box, and he wants nothing more than to hold it close, as if it were some sort of soft and comforting creature. The hum and woosh gets louder, longer, the glow brighter, until suddenly it is singing to him, some beautiful song of love and light and solace. He closes his eyes and lets himself cry, standing there in the middle of the half-emptied flat. The song envelops him, the tendrils of light expanding. It feels like a gentle squeeze of his shoulder.

 


End file.
